Sick Sherlock
by ibelieveinguardianangels
Summary: "Sherlock was lying on his side in the white hospital bed, his arms pulled in to protect his stomach, his eyes closed. He looked tiny curled up in such a vulnerable position and John felt an odd urge to protect him."


**This was just an experimental sick fic. I'm not a doctor and I have no medical knowledge so if I missed any important symptoms or got anything wrong, I apologise.  
Sorry for any mistakes.  
I'd love to know what you think. **

Sick Sherlock

"Why the _hell_ didn't you phone me, Sherlock?" John demanded as he reached out, gently placing the back of his hand against Sherlock's head in a bid to gauge his temperature. In all honesty, John wasn't upset with Sherlock. The chemist _had_ told him that he was feeling unwell when he had entered the sitting room that morning, his movements slightly stiff and his right hand resting on his stomach. John, even with this knowledge, had left the flat and gone to work. He was upset with himself for not staying and taking care of him. He should have known that it must have been bad for Sherlock to tell him about it and still he had left him. "I would have come home. We could have prevented it from escalating this far." The consulting detective was currently perched on the edge of his chair, dressed in his pyjamas, with his head in a waste bin, a trail of saliva dangling from his bottom lip. He was pale and visibly shaking, the act of vomiting clearly taking away what little energy he had. His eyes were red and glazed over and, when he raised them to meet John's his gaze seemed slightly unfocussed. John was standing in front of him, helping him hold the bin steady and occasionally wiping his mouth to get rid of any excess saliva.

"You were busy," Sherlock spoke, groaning in pain as John double checked that Sherlock wasn't about to vomit again and carefully helped him sit back in the chair. "Your patients needed you."

"Sherlock," John was slightly taken aback at the sudden show of concern for others and John assumed it must have been the fever talking. "You should know by now that I will help you if you need me to." Once he was certain that Sherlock's vomiting had ceased for the time being, he carefully helped him from the chair and over onto the sofa where he could stretch out and relax before entering the kitchen, removing the bag that was in the bin and replacing it with a fresh one. He grabbed his medical and the bin and re-entered the sitting room.

"Nausea." John listed as he removed the thermometer from his friend's mouth, frowning slightly at the temperature it was showing. "Vomiting. Stomach pain. Fever." Sherlock nodded his head in agreement, unconsciously pursing his lips. "I'll leave the bin on the floor beside you so that you don't have to worry about getting to the bathroom." John packed away his medical kit, storing it in the kitchen and returning to his friend with a glass of water and a towel which he had rinsed under the cold tap. John carefully draped the towel over Sherlock's forehead and dropped into his chair with a book, deciding that his friend wouldn't want him fussing over him too much.

"Stop worrying." Came a muffled voice from the sofa and John looked over to see his friend lying on his stomach now with his head buried in the space between the back of the sofa and John's Union Flag cushion, the damp towel discarded on the floor.

"I'm a doctor." John defended. "Its what I do."

"Well stop." Sherlock reprimanded weakly. "Its unnecessary."

John didn't respond to that, there was no sense in arguing with Sherlock, particularly not when he wasn't feeling his best, and instead returned his attention to his book. Sherlock, who had been groaning moments earlier and mumbling something about his stomach, fell quiet and for a moment John wondered if he'd fallen asleep. But the peace was interrupted and his unspoken questions answered when the detective almost flung himself off of the sofa with his right arm flailing to grasp the bucket, burying his head in it. John refrained from crossing the room to comfort him and instead remained in his seat, shifting forward slightly so he could get up if it turned out that Sherlock needed any assistance.

"Better?" John questioned gently when Sherlock raised his eyes to meet his. The detective shook his head miserably, instinctively reaching for the glass of water to rinse his mouth out. "You look terrible." John noted, referring to Sherlock's pale complexion, his skin was so pale it was almost white and it was a stark contrast to his black curls that were matted to his clammy forehead.

"Thanks." Sherlock groaned sarcastically, returning his head to the bucket.

"Lay on your back, Sherlock." John ordered softly once he'd finished vomiting, watching as the detective deposited the bucket on the floor and did as he was told, watching as the doctor stood and placed a blanket over his legs. "Try and sleep it off. I don't want to give you anything until I'm certain that you can keep it down."

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

Sherlock was crying. And John's mind was screaming at him to do something to help him. Sherlock had stood up, claiming that he had to use the toilet and had taken one step before the pain he'd been feeling in his stomach intensified and the detective's legs had buckled, leaving him on the floor. He was currently kneeling on the carpet of their shared sitting room, his bottom in the air and his head resting on his left forearm, his right hand clutching at the right side of his stomach. John reached out, carefully helping him off of the floor and over onto the sofa again, mentally reprimanding himself for not connecting the dots sooner.

"You're not going to like this, Sherlock," John warned as he removed his phone from his pocket, "but I'm calling an ambulance. This is out of my hands now." He stated simply. If John had been worried about his friend before, he was positively on edge when the consulting detective failed to argue with him. He simply clutched at his stomach, curling in on himself as warm tears rolled down his cheeks. John stepped away for a moment as he spoke with the operator on the end of the phone, glancing over at the younger man occasionally.

"John," The whimper made John's chest tighten as he finished a phone call with the operator after assuring her three times that he was a doctor and that he was capable of taking care of him until the ambulance came.

"I'm here," John replied immediately, stepping forwards again so that he was in arm's reach of his friend, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," He crouched beside the sofa, placing his hand on Sherlock's leg, "I'm not going anywhere." He repeated softly, forcing himself not to wipe away Sherlock's tears.

The eldest of the pair smiled reassuringly at Sherlock when the sound of sirens eventually travelled to his ears; he watched as the flashing of an ambulance car appeared outside the apartment and gently gave his friend's thigh a reassuring squeeze before standing, getting ready to greet the paramedic. After explaining the situation and providing the paramedic with the necessary details, he turned to his flatmate once more.

"Sherlock," John's voice was soft, "I'm going to step aside and let the paramedic do his job," He explained, "is that okay?" He watched as Sherlock nodded his head, his left hand darting out, grasping for his flatmate's; John reached forwards, intercepting the hand that was dancing in search of him.

John stepped aside so that he was by Sherlock's head, allowing the paramedic to check his flatmate over. He watched as he knelt on the floor beside him, making small talk with him as he attempted to calm him down. It soon became apparent that the young male was in too much pain to be mollified and the paramedic decided that the best course of action would be to call for an ambulance to take him to the hospital. When the ambulance arrived, Sherlock was guided on board with John holding onto one arm and the paramedic holding the other, supporting his bodyweight and helping him into the ambulance.

"Can we get an oxygen mask for him?" The paramedic questioned a colleague as John sat on a seat close to his flatmate, his shaking hand still held in his own. The paramedic turned to Sherlock, "So, Mr. Holmes, is Doctor Watson a friend or a relative?"

"Friend," Sherlock replied, his speech muffled by the oxygen mask they fitted over his nose and mouth and John knew that if Sherlock had been feeling better he would have rolled his eyes at such a question.

"And are you okay with him being in here?" The paramedic questioned, watching as the young male's eyes widened slightly.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, tightening his grip on John's hand, "He can't go." John squeezed Sherlock's hand back, noting how childlike the man became when he was in need of comfort.

"Don't worry," The paramedic soothed, "I'm not making him go anywhere, I just wanted to make sure."

As the paramedics worked to try and calm the detective down, John leant forwards, his right hand still holding his flatmate's own, trembling one, and his left hand slowly massaged his forearm as he sat staring at him, tears rolling down his cheeks. John spoke softly, but loud enough for his flatmate to hear, gently reassuring him. John knew that the detective must be in a great amount of pain to be openly crying in the company of strangers.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

John poked his head through the door of the private room Sherlock had been placed into (courtesy of Mycroft, no doubt). His breath caught in his throat as his gaze took in the sight before him. Sherlock was lying on his side in the white hospital bed, his arms pulled in to protect his stomach, his eyes closed. He looked tiny curled up in such a vulnerable position and John felt an odd urge to protect him. He crossed the room, pulling up a chair beside the bed and sitting down, carefully pushed Sherlock's curls away from his eyes.

"I'm sorry," John jumped slightly, he had been sure that the detective was asleep, and met his friend's watery kaleidoscope orbs.

"Don't be silly," John reached out, taking his flatmate's hand again, "You've nothing to apologise for."

"I should have said something earlier." Sherlock whimpered slightly, clearly referring to the worsening of his symptoms. "I should have told you sooner."

"Don't upset yourself, Sherlock." John soothed. "Its dealt with now. You're going to get better."

Sherlock had been rushed down for surgery almost as soon as he'd been brought in. The diagnosis was so simple that John could have punched himself for not realising sooner, he knew as soon as he had seen Sherlock clutch at his right side. Appendicitis. And, John noted, he could have saved Sherlock all of this pain if he'd have forced him to talk about his symptoms earlier.

"I want to go home," Sherlock sighed softly, rubbing clumsily at his eyes.

"Give it some time. You still need to recover a little more first." John smiled.

**Should I write any more sick fics?  
What do you think?**

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


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